by Laura Hile
Anne had spent much of the day resting, Elizabeth knew. Would she again retreat from the drawing room? It certainly looked that way.
“Spillikins involves strategy of a different sort,” said Kitty. She successfully extracted a stick and added it to her pile. “There, you see? I have six and this is the seventh.” She hung over the table and hunted for another.
“I am so easily muddled and mixed up,” Anne confessed. “And whenever I make an unwise move, Mother rants at me.”
“I say,” cried Kitty. “I would be rattled too, if someone did that to me.” She selected a stick and began to work it loose from the pile. The girls fell silent, for it was a difficult maneuver.
“Oh!” they cried together when Kitty failed.
“Your turn, Anne,” said Kitty cheerfully. “And look there, I’ve made the job easier for you. I dislodged that bit in the center.”
Anne reached out a tentative hand. “I shall try for the green one, just there.”
“Off you go, then,” said Lydia. “And be thankful that you don’t have Denny or Pratt breathing down your neck and laughing. This game is a favorite of theirs.”
Elizabeth closed her book and set it aside. She watched as Anne drew out the green stick successfully. It was a simple accomplishment, but it made all the difference to Anne. Her face was immediately less ashen.
Kitty was all encouragement. “Now try for another,” she said. “Remember, the one who prises out the most sticks wins the game. You already have five.”
“The red one, I think,” said Anne, reaching for it. “I do like this game after all. My mother,” she added, “insists that I be first in everything I do. To be a credit to the family, she says.”
“First?” said Kitty. “How do you mean?”
“When I play a game,” Anne explained, “I must win. And so often I do not!”
“I must win any game I play,” said Lydia, “but only when there is money in the pot.”
Jane, who shared the sofa with Elizabeth, gave a sigh of sympathy. “No wonder Miss de Bourgh is often ill,” she whispered. “In her place, I would be very discouraged. You know how stupid I am at loo. Lydia can best me every time.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Lydia would make a good tradeswoman, I think. She has the bargainer’s eye.”
Jane selected a length of silk and threaded her needle. “Mr. Mitchell must be on his toes when she comes into his shop. Mama ought to remind Lydia that haggling over price is unladylike.”
“Not in Mama’s eyes. How else would she be able to dress us as well as she does?” Elizabeth’s gaze strayed once more to the window.
Apparently Jane noticed. “What a very good thing that the snow has not resumed,” she said, echoing Elizabeth’s thoughts. “I daresay Mr. Fleming and Mr. Collins should not have gone to Netherfield.”
Elizabeth found her book and opened it. “Attendance on the sick,” she said, “is in Mr. Fleming’s line.” She turned a page.
“But surely not in Mr. Collins,’” said Jane. “He had no business at Netherfield.”
“I think perhaps he did,” said Elizabeth. “Although Mr. Fleming should have found someone else to show him the way. Mr. Collins knows nothing of our countryside. He is sure to get lost.”
To conceal her concern, Elizabeth added, “And we know how stupid Mr. Collins is.”
“Do we?” said Jane. She fell silent and then said, “I wonder if we have been mistaken, Lizzy. When first he came, he seemed very foolish indeed. But later—”
Elizabeth interrupted. “He was a good deal more than foolish! That letter he wrote to Father,” she said. “A pompous, condescending piece of nonsense. Designed to put himself forward in the most disagreeable way.”
“But the man himself is quite unlike that letter.”
“He seems so now,” scoffed Elizabeth. “But not when he first arrived.”
“I wonder,” said Jane. “Perhaps he thought it was the sort of letter he ought to write? Being accustomed, as he is, to producing sermons.”
“Odious and condescending sermons,” put in Elizabeth. “I pity his parishioners.”
“The tone of his letter might also have been influenced by the woman who provides his living.”
This point Elizabeth was unwilling to concede. “You cannot forget how he behaved at the Netherfield ball. And that dreadful speech in the Music Room. How I longed to sink into the floor!”
“I, ah, was not attending to Mr. Collins just then,” Jane admitted, smiling.
“You had much better company. You also did not dance with our dear cousin. My toes have been aching ever since, not to mention my pride.”
Jane set aside her embroidery frame. “If Mr. Collins disgraced himself,” she said seriously, “perhaps the punch was to blame.”
Elizabeth’s book slid to the floor; she did not bother to retrieve it. “Jane,” she whispered severely, “you are much too kind. Of course it was not the punch.”
“If it was especially delicious,” Jane pointed out, “I daresay Mr. Collins had too much.”
“In other words, he was drunk,” said Elizabeth. That would explain quite a bit, but she was not convinced.
“You know as well as I,” continued Jane, “that gentlemen sometimes drink too much when they feel uncomfortable.”
“Mr. Collins was fortifying himself?”
“It was in bad taste, certainly, but think, Lizzy. Every one of the guests was a stranger to him.”
Elizabeth gave another glance at the windows. “But we were not.”
“Yes we were,” insisted Jane. “When he arrived he knew none of us, not even Father. Consider how uncomfortable that must have been.”
“He set about to get on familiar terms soon enough,” said Elizabeth. “And he ate as though he were starving.”
“Perhaps he thought it was a compliment to Mama. She prides herself on setting a good table.”
Elizabeth gave Jane a look. “So if we were foreign, Mr. Collins would have belched?”
Jane laughed. “No, Lizzy, of course not. No one is that ill-mannered.”
But Elizabeth did not laugh with her. “Mr. Collins does not have the sense to feel discomfort or shame. He simply blunders ahead.”
“But the punch would explain his dancing.”
“Jane,” said Elizabeth, “he did not know the steps. The man was floundering about, spinning where he should not spin, skipping down the line like a numbskull, blundering into couples. And then smiling and bowing and apologizing!”
“As would any gentleman who had had too much to drink.”
“He made me look a fool,” said Elizabeth. “And our family as well, since he announced to the world that we are related.”
Jane took up her embroidery frame. “I daresay it would be well for a rector to avoid liquor or sweets,” she said, “if he has so little self-control.”
Elizabeth leaned in. “It’s funny that you should mention sweets. Do you know, Mr. Collins now prefers black coffee? I suppose the injury took away his aversion for it.”
“Adversity,” said Jane, taking a stitch and pulling the silk through, “causes a person to think more seriously about life. Perhaps Mr. Collins has taken himself in hand.”
“Meaning that he has reformed? Turned over a new leaf?” Elizabeth gave a huff of disbelief. But she looked again to the window. Was it her imagination or was it darker out?
“Other men have done so,” said Jane serenely. “Why not Mr. Collins?”
Jane’s smile made Elizabeth uneasy. She reached down and retrieved her book from the floor. But though she bent her eyes to the pages, she did not read a word.
g
Sometime later Hill came in and went directly to Mrs. Bennet. The younger girls, having abandoned Spillikins, were now clustered near one of the windows. Lydia had coaxed Anne de Bourgh to try her hand at drawing Kitty.
Whatever Hill was saying must have been of interest, for Elizabeth saw her mother sit up and listen. Then she gave an unhappy sniff.
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br /> “What care I? If he dies in the snowstorm, so much the better!”
Elizabeth rose to her feet and went over.
“Hill thinks we should mount a search for Mr. Collins. Apparently—and we do not know this for a fact—Mr. Fleming intended to stay over at Netherfield.”
Elizabeth felt a tendril of fear curl around her heart. Mr. Collins would be walking those miles alone?
“As if we can spare any of our menservants,” her mother went on. “Mr. Collins may fend for himself, I say.”
“Perhaps he will also remain,” Jane suggested. “As I did when I became ill.”
Lydia leaned back in her chair. “You’ve missed your chance with him, Lizzy,” she called. “I daresay Mr. Collins has designs on Miss Bingley.”
“Do be quiet, Lydia,” said Mrs. Bennet. “He has nothing of the sort. Lizzy is still first with him. I have eyes.”
“Mama, really,” said Elizabeth. She turned to Hill. “I daresay that is the explanation.”
“Mr. Collins is as stubborn as they come, Miss,” said Hill. “He promised to return the snowshoes, as they’re needed tonight. He swore to keep his promise. On pain of death, he said.”
Trust Mr. Collins to make maudlin promises he could not keep! And yet—
Elizabeth studied Hill’s face. This woman was not easily taken in by flattery. How had William Collins won her confidence?
Meanwhile, Lydia and Kitty had taken up the amusing subject of Mr. Collins’ success with Miss Bingley. Had her sisters been gentlemen, they would probably be placing bets!
“Oh, oh!” cried Anne, laughing and gasping for breath. “Poor Miss Bingley, to be saddled with such a husband!”
“You needn’t feel sorry for her,” said Kitty. “She lords her precedence over us something awful.”
“Not precedence, Kitty, riches,” said Lydia. “Her fine clothing and jewels. I daresay you could put her nose out of joint, Anne,” she added.
“But her brother,” Kitty hurried to say, “is not stuffy at all. He is very nice. And so good looking.”
Anne was then was treated to more detailed descriptions. Jane, Elizabeth noted, became intent on her embroidery frame. Elizabeth took another look at the clock. It would be time for dinner soon.
“But the names combine so perfectly,” Lydia was saying. “Caroline Collins. Poor Mama. To be replaced as mistress by someone like that.”
Mrs. Bennet clucked and fluttered and trembled.
Elizabeth spoke up. “Mama, surely you would remain in residence,” she said. “Mrs. Collins could afford a magnificent London house, which would suit her very well.”
“You cannot pull the wool over my eyes,” fretted Mrs. Bennet. “I know how the world turns. And the lure of becoming a resident landowner is strong, Lizzy. Of course they will want Longbourn, if only to lord it over—”
“Mama,” Elizabeth broke in. “We are only funning. Mr. Collins and Miss Bingley would never wish to marry.”
“Oh,” her mother cried, still in a flutter. “Play something, Mary. Something cheerful.”
Mary went to the instrument and opened it. “Mr. Collins,” she said, “has been in my prayers all this day. And Mr. Fleming, of course. And Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth had forgotten all about Mr. Darcy.
Hill came in with candles and the hanging lamp was lit. Elizabeth did not need to look to the windows to know that it was dark.
Mary launched into a fantasie of Mozart’s, playing the triplets and arpeggios badly. This proved the perfect complement to Elizabeth’s state of mind.
Presently they sat down to dinner, with William Collins’ place conspicuously empty. Elizabeth unfolded her napkin and smoothed it. The soup was served.
“Now don’t you worry about Mr. Collins,” her father said. “It’s early in the season; the solstice is several weeks away.”
There were smiles all around the table.
“And besides,” her father added, “any animals that might be roaming about will present no danger. At this time of year they are not as hungry as they will be in, say, late January.”
Elizabeth choked on her soup.
“Now, now,” said her mother. “You should not tease poor Lizzy. She is quite right to fret over Mr. Collins.”
Elizabeth could not meet her mother’s saucy look. Fortunately her mother was soon distracted by the talk of the younger girls. Elizabeth lifted her spoon and then set it down again.
He was lost in the snow, she knew it. And he hadn’t the sense to follow his own tracks back to Longbourn. His presence was not necessary at Netherfield, but would he listen?
Surely he was the most stubborn of men! Determined, too, for that light had been in his eyes—that steely glint. He’d gone ahead, and this was the result.
The soup was taken away and the main course served. Elizabeth toyed with her fork and took several bites for the sake of eating. The members of her family were giving her sidelong looks, as if her behavior was out of the ordinary. Even Anne de Bourgh looked inquisitive.
It was all Elizabeth could do to conceal her irritation.
“Consumed with worry,” her mother remarked. “A very good sign.”
Elizabeth laid down her fork. “Our cousin,” she said, “is quite capable of taking care of himself.”
Lydia gave a snort.
Elizabeth put up her chin. “I would be concerned about a dog left out in such weather.”
Her mother lifted her glass. “And if Mr. Collins does happen to perish in the snow,” she said hopefully.
“Another would take his place, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet. “A man who is, perhaps, not quite so easily managed. Nor possessed of so pliable a nature.”
Which showed how much her father knew about William Collins. He was anything but pliable! Intractable, obstinate, pigheaded—
At last Elizabeth excused herself from the table.
It was half-past six and fully dark, with only moonlight to show the way. Elizabeth pictured a ship at sea, navigating through crashing waves toward an inhospitable coastline.
A ship.
And an idea.
Elizabeth snatched up a candlestick and returned to the window. Could it be seen from outside? No, this was too low. It must be high, like a lighthouse.
Out of the drawing room she went—quickly, before any of her family came in—and up a flight of stairs to the bedchambers.
It so happened that Elizabeth’s own room faced the front of the house. She drew the draperies aside, pulled up a small table, and set the candle before the window glass.
Was it enough? Frowning, she studied the effect. No. She brought her own candlestick from the bedside table and lit it. Two lights. Should there be three?
Elizabeth went directly to Mary’s bedchamber and found Mary’s candlestick. Three lights. Perhaps he (or some other weary traveler) would see it and be directed to safety?
The candles were new and could burn unattended for hours. Somewhat comforted, Elizabeth closed the door and descended to the drawing room.
g
Perhaps an hour later, or what seemed like an hour, there came banging on the main door. Elizabeth heard cries of “Hurry!” and the bolt being drawn back. She was on her feet in an instant, as were the other members of her family. Into the vestibule they spilled in time to see William Collins stagger across the threshold. He was red in the face, with crystals of ice on his coat. And he held the extra pair of snowshoes.
Hill surged forward, drawing him in, fussing all the while. Crying a little too, if that could be believed.
Mr. Collins laid aside the snowshoes and took her hand in both of his. “God bless you, Mrs. Hill,” he said, “for the light in the window. A beacon of hope it was, found in my darkest hour. You have saved my life.”
Elizabeth looked away from her cousin’s face, afraid to confront the honest sincerity written there. Hill sent Sarah running for a change of clothes and took Mr. Collins to the kitchen to be warmed.
Suddenly shy, Elizabeth re
turned with the others to the drawing room. Her mind, however, was taken up with the candles. She must extinguish them before anyone noticed. Let Mr. Collins think them a figment of his imagination!
Conversation resumed, and Elizabeth took up her book. As soon as she could manage it, she slipped out and hurried up the stairs. At once she blew out two of the candles and waited for the wax to cool—why must it take so long? But the wax must not splash onto the floor, so she had no choice. And why must there be such a fog of smoke?
Her own candle she replaced on the bedside table. Mary’s candle must likewise be returned, but there was the matter of the smoke that could drift out. Why would it not dissipate? She heard various sounds. Was someone climbing the stairs? She waited, praying that no one would come in.
At last she decided that it was quiet enough. Everyone should be below in the drawing room. Cautiously Elizabeth opened the door and waited. She then took up Mary’s candlestick, stepped out into the corridor—and collided with William Collins!
His bulk blocked the passage; his hair was ruffled and wild. He looked from the candle to her face.
Elizabeth could feel blushes rising to her cheeks—oh, that the dimness would hide them from his notice! But he did notice. His eyes were intelligent and comprehending.
What could she say? Nothing! And so she waited, counting her heartbeats. Why would he not move out of the way?
He just stood there, gazing down at her as the minutes passed.
At last he said, gruffly, “Good night, Cousin,” and stood aside to let her pass.
17Cheerily and Merrily
On the following morning, Collins discovered that his head did not ache nearly so much. In fact, he felt more like himself than ever. Except that he was not himself, he was Darcy.
Sometime later a gentleman and lady came to visit. They seemed familiar to Collins, especially the man, but he could not place their names. Were they husband and wife?
“Hello, Darcy,” the man said cheerfully. “We heard you are better and have come to see for ourselves.”
Collins attempted to rise to the occasion by smiling. It took effort to twitch his lips into the proper shape.
